The Protectors

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MILLS & BOON

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About the Author

A born romantic, BEVERLY BARTON fell in love with The Beauty and the Beast epic at an early age, when her grandfather bought her an illustrated copy of the famous fairy tale. Even before she learned to read and write, Beverly’s vivid imagination created magical words and fabulous characters inside her mind.

After her marriage to the “love of her life” and the births of her two children, Beverly continued to be a voracious reader and a devoted moviegoer, but she put her writing aspirations on hold until her children were teenagers. In her mid-thirties she returned to her former passion – writing – as a hobby, but, before forty, she decided that she wanted to make writing a full-time career.

Beverly believes she has had it all, just not all at the same time. She devoted herself to her husband and children and considers herself one of the many selfless “supermums” who put their family’s needs first. At every age of their lives, from infancy to adulthood, Beverly’s children have been a true joy to her.

Having a fantastic family and fabulous friends, as well as making a living doing the one thing she has loved doing since childhood, Beverly considers herself truly blessed.

To several very special ladies whose friendships have

meant so much to me over the past few years.

Thank y’all for your support and encouragement:

Jean Tune, JoAnn Courtney, Helen Everett

and Marsha Hunt.

Prologue

She must have taken the wrong turn off Cotton Lane. There was nothing out here but a bunch of cotton fields and an endless stretch of dirt road, apparently leading nowhere except in and out of the fields.

Deborah Vaughn slowed her dark blue Cadillac to a stop, shifted the gears into Park and picked up the piece of paper on which she’d written the directions. Despite the protection of her sunglasses, Deborah squinted against the sun’s blinding glare. Holding up her hand to shield her eyes, she glanced down at the map and instructions she’d brought along to help her find the new development property her real estate firm had just purchased. Damn! She had turned off too soon.

Glancing around, she didn’t see anywhere to make a turn, and she certainly had no intention of backing her car all the way to Cotton Lane. She’d just have to go a little farther and find some place to turn around.

Shifting the gears into Drive, she drove on. Within a few minutes she spotted what appeared to be the burned-out remains of an old shack. A wide, weed-infested path, marred with deep ruts, ran straight from the dirt road to where a shiny black Ford pickup had parked in knee-high grass behind the still-standing brick chimney.

Loud, pulse-pounding country music blared from the truck’s radio.

Deborah assumed the truck belonged to the farmer who had planted the acres of cotton. She drove her Cadillac onto the path, intending to back up and head out the way she had come. The sun’s glare blocked her vision, allowing her only partial vision of the open truck door. A man jumped out of the driver’s side, and yelled a warning. She glanced toward the back of the truck where two men stood, one holding a gun to the other’s head.

Sunshine reflected off the metal on the gun in the killer’s hand. The gun fired. The wail of a steel guitar blasted from inside the truck. Deborah screamed. Blood splattered from the dead man’s head. The killer turned abruptly and stared at the Cadillac, at the woman inside, then released his hold on the body. His victim slumped to the ground.

Deborah recognized the killer from his picture in the paper. She couldn’t remember his name, but she knew he was somehow connected to that outlaw gang headed by Buck Stansell.

The man who’d leaped out of the truck pointed toward Deborah’s car.

Dear God, she had to get away! Shifting the car into reverse, she backed out of the bumpy path and then headed the Cadillac toward Cotton Lane. She heard the truck’s engine roar to life. Glancing back she saw the killer aim his gun out the window.

The Caddy sped down the dirt road, the black truck in hot pursuit. While the driver veered the truck off the side of the dirt road, partially into the open field, the killer aimed his gun toward Deborah. The truck closed in on the car, the truck’s hood parallel to the Cadillac’s left rear bumper. The killer fired; the bullet shattered the outside mirror. Deborah cried out, but didn’t slow her escape, didn’t take her eyes off the road ahead of her.

A cloud of dust flew up behind the Cadillac, providing a thin veil of protection between her and the men determined to overtake her. The truck picked up speed just as Deborah saw Cotton Lane ahead of her. Another bullet ripped through the driver’s door.

They intended to kill her. She had no doubt in her mind. She’d seen the killer’s face, the man who had murdered another in cold blood. She could identify him. And he knew it.

The minute she turned the Caddy onto Cotton Lane, she sped away from the truck. She had to escape. Had to find help. But who? Where? The police!

She didn’t dare slow down enough to use her cellular phone. She had to make it to the police station before her pursuers caught her.

Where the hell was the police station in Leighton? Think, dammit, Deborah! Think!

She crossed Highway 72, paying little attention to whether or not traffic was coming from the other direction. The sleepy little town of Leighton, Alabama lay straight ahead. The truck breathed down her neck like a black dragon, the killer’s gun spitting deadly lead fire.

A bullet sailed through the back glass, embedding itself in the dashboard. Deborah ran the Caddy straight through the town’s one red light. The black truck slowed, but continued following her.

Deborah brought her car to a screeching halt at the side of the police station, a small metal building on the right side of the narrow street. Glancing behind her, she saw the black truck creep by. Lying down in the front seat, she eased open the door, crawled out and made a mad dash to safety.

A young officer jumped up from behind a metal desk when Deborah ran inside the station. “What the hell’s going on, lady? You look like the devil’s chasing you.”

“He is.” Deborah panted, wiping the perspiration from her face with the palm of her hand. She grabbed the approaching officer’s shoulders. “I just witnessed a murder.”

“You what?” The young officer’s face paled. “Come on in and sit down.”

“I don’t want to sit down,” Deborah screamed. “They’re out there. Two of them. The killer and the man who was driving the truck. They followed me all the way into town. They shot at me. They were trying to kill me!”

“Good God!” He shoved Deborah aside, drew his 9mm handgun and rushed outside.

The female officer who’d been listening to the conversation rushed over to Deborah and followed her when she headed for the door. Looking up and down the street, Deborah didn’t see the truck. She leaned against the doorpost.

“Are you all right?” the woman officer asked.

“I will be.”

The male officer let out a long, low whistle when he saw Deborah’s Cadillac. “Good thing they didn’t get a lucky shot or you’d be dead, ma’am.”

“They’re gone, aren’t they?” Deborah asked, realizing they wouldn’t have hung around, making it easy for the police to arrest them.

“Yes, ma’am, looks that way.” He walked toward her, shaking his head. “Just where did this murder take place?”

“Out past some cotton fields, somewhere off Cotton Lane.”

“Don’t suppose you recognized either man in the truck or the man you say they murdered?”

“I only recognized one of them,” Deborah said. “The killer. He’s one of Buck Stansell’s gang. I remember seeing his picture in the paper when he went to trial a few months ago on drug-related charges.”

“Lon Sparks?” the officer asked. “You saw Lon Sparks kill a man?”

“Yes, if that’s his name…I saw him kill a man. Shot him in the head. Blood everywhere. All over the dead man. All over the killer.” Deborah trembled, her hands shaking uncontrollably.

“Damn, ma’am, I sure wouldn’t want to be in your shoes. Lon Sparks is a mean bastard, if you’ll pardon me saying so.” The officer returned his gun to his holster.

“Shut up, Jerry Don, can’t you see she’s already scared out of her wits.” Putting an arm around Deborah’s shoulder, the female officer led her back inside the station. “We’d better get hold of the chief and then call the sheriff. If the killing took place out past Cotton Lane, then it’s a county matter.”

“Everything will be all right,” Jerry Don said. “You’re safe here with us, Miss…er…Miss…?”

“Deborah Vaughn.”

“Come on over and sit down, Miss Vaughn, and tell me exactly what happened,” The female officer said.

“May I use your phone first?” Deborah picked up the telephone on the officer’s desk. “I’m expected at home for dinner and my mother will worry if I’m late.”

Her hands trembled as she dialed the number. “Mother, I’m afraid I’ll be running a little late. You and Allen go ahead and have dinner without me. No. No, everything’s all right. I just ran into a little car trouble out here in Leighton. Nothing I can’t handle.”

Nothing she couldn’t handle. That’s right, Deborah. You’re tough, aren’t you? You can handle anything that’s thrown your way. You don’t need anyone to take care of you. You’ve been taking care of everyone else for so long, you wouldn’t know how it felt to admit you needed someone.

Well, it looked like the time had come. If the police wanted her to live long enough to testify against a cold-blooded killer, someone was going to have to protect her from Buck Stansell’s outlaws.

Chapter One

He had sworn he’d never come back to Sheffield, Alabama. But never say never. Ashe McLaughlin had discovered that anyone so absolutely certain often wound up eating his own words. And in his case, the taste was mighty bitter.

He had been gone eleven years, and little had changed. Except him. He had changed. He was older. Smarter. Harder.

He chuckled to himself. Harder? Hell, folks in northwest Alabama had considered him a real bad boy, one of those McLaughlins from Leighton, his daddy nothing but a white trash outlaw. But Ashe hadn’t been as tough as everyone thought. He had hated the legacy of poverty and ignorance his family had given him. He’d wanted more. He’d fought long and hard to better himself. But Wallace Vaughn had destroyed Ashe’s dreams of being accepted in Colbert County.

Eleven years ago he’d been told to leave town or else—or else he would have done jail time.

Now, here he was returning to a town that hadn’t wanted his kind. He couldn’t help wondering if anyone other than his grandmother would welcome him home. He supposed Carol Allen Vaughn would be glad to see him. After all, she’d been the one who’d asked him to take this job. He was probably a fool for agreeing to act as Deborah’s bodyguard.

Deborah Vaughn. No amount of time or distance had been able to erase her from Ashe’s memory.

He parked his rental car in the circular drive in front of the old Allen home, a brick Greek Revival cottage on Montgomery Avenue. His grandmother had once been the housekeeper here for the Vaughn family.

Walking up to the front door, he hesitated before ringing the bell. He’d never been allowed to enter the house through the front door but had always gone around to the back and entered through the kitchen. He remembered sitting at the kitchen table doing his homework, sharing milk and cookies with Deborah, and sometimes her older cousin Whitney. That had been a lifetime ago.

He rang the doorbell. What the hell was he doing here? Why had he allowed Carol Vaughn’s dare to goad him into returning to a town he hated? Deborah needs you, she’d said. Are you afraid to see her again? she had taunted him.

He was not afraid to see Deborah Vaughn again. After ten years as a Green Beret, Ashe McLaughlin was afraid of nothing, least of all the girl who had betrayed him.

A plump, middle-aged woman opened the door and greeted him with a smile. “Yes, sir?”

“I’m Ashe McLaughlin. Mrs. Vaughn is expecting me.”

“Yes, please come inside. I’ll tell Miss Carol you’re here.”

Ashe stepped into the gracious entrance hall large enough to accommodate a grand piano as well as a large mahogany and gilt table with an enormous bouquet of fresh flowers in the center. A sweeping staircase wound upward on the left side of the room.

“If you’ll wait here, please.” The housekeeper scurried down the hall toward the back of the house.

He’d been summoned home. Like a knight in the Queen’s service. Ashe grinned. Better a knight than a stable boy, he supposed. Why hadn’t he just said no? I’m sorry, Mrs. Vaughn, but whatever trouble Deborah has gotten herself into, you’ll have to find someone else to rescue her.

God knows he had tried to refuse, but once he’d heard that Deborah’s life was in real danger, he had wavered in his resistance. And Carol Vaughn had taken advantage of the weakness she sensed in him.

“Ashe, so good of you to come, dear boy.” The voice still held that note of authority, that hint of superiority, that tone of Southern gentility.

He turned to face her, the woman he had always thought of as the personification of a real lady. He barely recognized the woman who stood before him. Thin, almost gaunt, her beautiful face etched with faint age lines, her complexion sickly pale. Her short blond hair was streaked with gray. She had once been full-figured, voluptuous and lovely beyond words.

She couldn’t be much more than fifty, but she looked older.

Caught off-guard by her appearance, by the drastic change the years had wrought, Ashe stared at Carol Vaughn. Quickly recovering his composure, he took several tentative steps forward and held out his hand.

She clasped his big, strong hand in her small, fragile one and squeezed. “Thank you for coming. You can’t imagine how desperately we need your help.”

Ashe assisted Carol down the hallway and into the living room. The four-columned entry permitted an unobstructed view of the room from the foyer. The hardwood floors glistened like polished metal in the sunlight. A blend of antiques and expensive reproductions bespoke of wealth and good taste.

“The sofa, please, Ashe.” She patted his hand. “Sit beside me and we’ll discuss what must be done.”

He guided her to the sofa, seated her and perched his big body on the edge, not feeling comfortable in her presence. “Does Deborah know you sent for me?”

“I haven’t told her,” Carol said. “She’s a stubborn one, that girl of mine. She’s always had a mind of her own. But she’s been a dutiful daughter.”

“What if she doesn’t agree to my being here?” He had known Deborah when she was seventeen, a plump, pretty girl who’d had a major crush on him. What would she look like now? And how did she feel about him after all these years?

“Mazie, please bring us some coffee,” Carol instructed the housekeeper who stood at the end of the hallway. “And a few of those little cakes from the bakery. The cinnamon ones.”

“Refreshments aren’t necessary, Mrs. Vaughn. Really.” Ashe felt ill at ease being entertained, as if his visit were a social call. “I’m here on business. Remember?”

“Mazie, go ahead and bring the coffee and the cakes, too.” Carol turned her attention to Ashe. “Times change, but good manners don’t. Of course my mother would be appalled that I had welcomed a gentleman, unrelated to me and not a minister, into my home when I am quite alone.”

“Coffee will be fine, Mrs. Vaughn.”

“You used to call me Miss Carol. I much prefer that to the other. Your calling me Mrs. Vaughn makes us sound like strangers. And despite your long absence from Sheffield, we are hardly strangers, are we, Ashe?”

“No, ma’am, we’re not strangers.”

“Mazie has prepared you a room upstairs. I want you with Deborah at all times.” Carol blushed ever so lightly. “Or at least close by.”

“Has she received any more threats since we spoke two days ago?”

“Mercy, yes. Every day, there’s a new letter and another phone call, but Charlie Blaylock says there’s nothing more he can do. And I asked him why the sheriff was incapable of protecting innocent citizens.”

“Has a trial date been set for Lon Sparks?” Ashe asked.

“Not yet. It should be soon. But not soon enough for me. I can’t bear the thought of Deborah being in danger.”

“She just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Ashe knew what that was like. And he knew as well as anyone in these parts just how dangerous Buck Stansell and his band of outlaws could be. For three generations, the Stansell bunch, along with several other families, had cornered the market on illegal activities. Everything from prostitution to bootlegging, when the county had been dry. And nowadays weapons and drugs dominated their money-making activities.

“She insists on testifying.” Carol glanced up when she saw Mazie bringing the coffee. “Just put it there on the table, please.”

Mazie placed the silver service on the mahogany tea table to the left of the sofa, asked if there would be anything else and retreated to the kitchen when told all was in order.

“Do you prefer your coffee black?” Carol asked.

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” When his hostess poured the coffee and handed it to him, Ashe accepted the Haviland cup.

“I will expect you to stay in Sheffield until the trial is over and Deborah is no longer in danger.”

“I’ve already assured you that I’ll stay as long as is necessary to ensure Deborah’s safety.”

“And I will send the sum we agreed upon to your agency in Atlanta on a weekly basis.”

“You and I have come to an agreement on terms,” Ashe said. “But unless Deborah cooperates—”

“She will cooperate.”

Ashe widened his eyes, surprised by the vigor of Carol Vaughn’s statement. Apparently her fragile physical condition had not extinguished the fire in her personality.

The front door flew open and a tall, gangly boy of perhaps twelve raced into the living room, tossing a stack of schoolbooks down on a bowfront walnut commode.

“I made a hundred on my math test. See. Take a look.” He dashed across the room, handed Carol his paper and sat down on the floor at her feet. “And guess what else, Mother? My team beat the hel…heck out of Jimmy Morton’s team in PE today.”

Carol caressed the boy’s blond hair, petting him with deep affection. “I’m so proud of you, Allen.”

The boy turned his attention to Ashe, who stared at the child, amazed at his striking resemblance to Deborah. Ashe’s grandmother had mentioned Allen from time to time in her letters and phone calls. He’d always thought it odd that Wallace and Carol Vaughn had had another child so late in life. When Wallace Vaughn had run Ashe out of town eleven years ago, the Vaughns had had one child—seventeen-year-old Deborah.

“Who’s he?” Allen asked.

“Allen, this is Mr. McLaughlin. He’s an old friend. He and Deborah went to school together.”

“Were you Deborah’s boyfriend?” Allen scooted around on the floor until he situated himself just right, so he could prop his back against the Queen Anne coffee table.

“Allen, you musn’t be rude.” Carol shook her index finger at the boy, but she smiled as she scolded him.

“I wasn’t being rude. I was just hoping Mr. McLaughlin was here to ask Deborah for a date. She never goes out unless it’s with Neil, and she told me that he isn’t her boyfriend.”

“I must apologize for Allen, but you see, he is very concerned that Deborah doesn’t have a boyfriend,” Carol explained. “Especially since he’s going steady himself. For what now, Allen, ten days?”

“Ah, quit kidding me.” Allen unlaced his shoes, then reached up on top of the tea table to retrieve a tiny cinnamon cake. He popped it into his mouth.

Ashe watched the boy, noting again how much he looked like Deborah as a young girl. Except where she had been short and plump with small hands and feet, Allen was tall, slender and possessed large feet and big hands. But his hair was the same color, his eyes an almost identical blue.

“Hey, what do we know about Mr. McLaughlin? We can’t let Deborah date just anybody.” Allen returned Ashe’s penetrating stare. “If he gets serious about Deborah, is he the kind of man who’d make her a good husband?”

The front door opened and closed again. A neatly attired young woman in a navy suit and white blouse walked into the entrance hall.

“Now, Allen, you’re being rude again,” Carol said. “Besides, your sister’s love life really isn’t any of our business, even if we did find her the perfect man.”

“Now what?” Deborah called out from the hallway, not even looking their way. “Mother, you and Allen haven’t found another prospect you want me to consider, have you? Just who have you two picked out as potential husband material this time?”

Carrying an oxblood leather briefcase, Deborah came to an abrupt halt when she looked into the living room and saw Ashe sitting beside her mother on the sofa. She gasped aloud, visibly shaken.

“Come in, dear. Allen and I were just entertaining Ashe McLaughlin. You remember Ashe, don’t you, Deborah?”

“Was he your old boyfriend?” Allen asked. “Mother won’t tell me.”

Ashe stood and took a long, hard look at Deborah Vaughn…the girl who had proclaimed her undying love for him one night down by the river, eleven years ago. The girl who, when he gently rejected her, had run crying to her rich and powerful daddy.

The district attorney and Wallace Vaughn had given Ashe two choices. Leave town and never come back, or face statutory rape charges.

“Hello, Deborah.”

“What are you doing here?”

She had changed, perhaps even more than her pale, weak mother. No longer plump but still as lovely as she’d been as a teenager, Deborah possessed a poise and elegance that had eluded the younger, rather awkward girl. She wore her long, dark blond hair tucked into a loose bun at the nape of her neck. A pair of small golden earrings matched the double gold chain around her neck.

“Your mother sent for me.” Ashe noted the astonished look on her face.

Deborah, still standing in the entrance hall, gazed at her mother. “What does he mean, you sent for him?”

“Now, dear, please come in and let’s talk about this matter before you upset yourself.”

“Allen, please go out in the kitchen with Mazie while I speak with Mother and Mr. McLaughlin.”

“Ah, why do I have to leave? I’m a member of this family, aren’t I? I shouldn’t be excluded from important conversations.” When his sister remained silent, Allen looked pleadingly at his mother, who shook her head.

“Do what Deborah says.” Carol motioned toward the hallway. “This is grown-up talk and although you’re quite a young man, you’re still not old enough to—”